


Dark Night; Black Moon

by Insatiable_Fox



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 20:48:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16182920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insatiable_Fox/pseuds/Insatiable_Fox
Summary: You've been watching him.Discreetly, yet enough that you're sure he's noticed. Enough that you're convinced the straightening of his spine, the purposeful way he moves around the room, is for you.~ A slightly abstract Drarry fic ~





	Dark Night; Black Moon

You've been watching him.

 

Discreetly, yet enough that you're sure he's noticed. Enough that you're convinced the straightening of his spine, the purposeful way he moves around the room, is for you.

 

You clutch the firewhiskey tighter in your hand, the condensation that rolls down the tumbler and over your pale fingers the one saving distraction in this room. This room, which is too bright, too loud. Too full. Of _him_ , of people who want him and demand his attention and get to hold his arm and lean close, if only for a second.

 

You watch him dance.

 

It surprises you, the grace with which he moves, so different from the boy you grew up antagonising. He's a man now. Solid. Strong. With shoulders you want to grip, hips you want to straddle, thighs you want to feel flexing and straining against your own. You know it's futile, this illicit daydreaming. Still. Perhaps it’s only the liquor talking, but you’re filled with a heady, absolute conviction that he's as aware of you, as you are of him.

 

This time, at least.

 

It feels like throwing caution to the wind; an inebriating sense of carelessness when you finally stand, swaying slightly, and start making your way toward him. You could try fool yourself. Claim it was the whiskey running through your blood that propelled you forward, although you know that would only be a lie. It’s the inevitable, the conclusion to the path you've been walking for far too long. The end of this tumultuous road.

 

You make your way through the crowds slowly. They move for you, step aside, the stigma that surrounds you still evident even after all these years. For once you welcome it. Embrace it, because it means you get to him just that little bit faster.

 

People stare.

 

Of course they do. You're you, and he's him, and it's no secret, the past you share. They believe the tales told of your youth, the half-truths and the rumours, the stories that are spread. Like sheep they accept fiction as fact, dutifully following the examples of others, never bothering to question. You're the wolf, and they run scared.

 

He’s no sheep. Maybe he was once upon a time, back when he was a tool wielded by the light, the boy conditioned to save the world. You know what it’s like, to live with the weight of others expectations. To feel as if you have no alternatives. No free will. No ability to deviate from the prerequisite route chosen for you, long before you could have a say. Long before you started to question the side you were fighting for. The one you were so eager to please.

 

You’re nearing where he’s stood, back pressed to the wall, cheeks still flushed from dancing. His friends crowd him as you approach, the two which complete the trio, and a fissure of jealousy shoots through you. Not at the girl but at the boy. The man. The one always privy to his secrets. The receiver of his affection, who basked in the glow of his fame.

 

Before, you would have taken that. Tonight, you’re aiming for more.

 

You’re elated when he motions his minions away; even more so when you notice the way his eyes track over your body and the curvature of his lips when he’s finished. You haven’t thought this far ahead, so use to being shunned that you don’t know what to do next. All you know is that you’re there, standing in front of him, and the only thing you can focus on is the overwhelming need to press your lips to his. Perhaps not the best idea, given the people present.

 

“Potter”, you manage to choke out stiffly once the silence becomes unbearable. “Harry,” you amend, and the name feels foreign on your tongue.

 

“Malfoy. Draco,” he replies with a smirk, but there’s no malice in his tone, and your name on his lips sends a spark of hunger down your spine.

 

You’re almost certain that his formal speech is a playful jab, an attempt to ease the tension that surrounds this impromptu... _gathering_. It’s the only word to describe the situation, because somehow in the space of your rigid formalities people have edged closer. Some pretend attention elsewhere yet the majority are bluntly staring, expressions from rage to perplexity evident on their faces. For a moment, you worry about mob mentality. All it would take is an insult issued from the orange lackey and you would be doomed.

 

He seems to realise this; takes in the close bodies and the air of menace. Indecision wars across his face, twisting his features, until he ostensibly makes a decision and clasps a sure hand over your forearm. _That_ forearm; the one that will forever mark your ostracism from the wizarding world. Still, he either doesn’t realise or care as he pulls you through the throng and out the door into the cool, damp of night.

 

He props himself against the ragged brick of the building and regards you expectantly, breath misting and curling around his face in the chilled air. You choke on the words crowding your head before snapping your mouth closed, hands buried deep within your pockets all that’s keeping you from grabbing him by his jacket lapels and taking him, held to the wall. It’s what you want - what you’ve wanted for longer than you would care to admit. An insatiable need to possess, control, _be controlled by_ the man who has been the antagonist in your horror story life.

 

Or maybe it’s you who should wear that title. Protagonist fits him better than you. Hero versus villain. Light versus dark.

 

It’s him who severs the silence. Him, who pushes away from the brick and takes two steps forward, close enough so that his smell envelops you, woody and smoky and _homely._ Him, whose eyes glint inky and dangerous under the black moon as he brings his hand to rest lightly at your waist, heat permeating through the layers of your dress robes.

 

It’s _you,_  who breaks.

 

You can’t say how but suddenly your hands are on him, pulling him closer, closing the space between you until your bodies are millimetres apart. A hitched intake of breath and your eyes are flicking down – just a little – seeking his gaze, confirmation that you’re not the only crazy one to feel the pull between you. His breath is ragged against your cheeks, and if you press your body a breath closer– _yes –_ he’s hard and wanting.

 

That’s all the proof you need, and you close the tiny, infinitesimal gap.

 

Heat laces through you as your lips finally, _finally,_ meet his. If you had been expecting tenderness, restraint, you are sorely wrong. Mouth’s clash, years’ of repressed need bursting out like a broken dam, hot and hungry and needy. A base moan echoes through the night, and you honestly can’t say whether it was issued from you, or him. His hands come to curl around your waist, hips unashamedly grinding against yours, hardness rubbing tantalising against hardness. It’s easy to forget, with his insistent mouth on yours and body against body, that this should be forbidden.

 

You pull back slightly, gulp a breath, try to take a moment. But his tongue traces along your jaw before he moves to your neck, sucking pale skin until blood blossoms diligently under his advances, and you're lost again.

 

It’s hard to say how far you would have gone, cocooned in a bubble of him and only him. Yet the door to the building opens releasing a wave of noise, and it seems to all at once occur to him where you are. What you’re doing.  He stills, hands which had somehow found their way down to your arse clamping down. Holding you there. He looks at you, seemingly searching your face for something you don't know how to give him. Reassurance? Lust? Pleading, dire need?

 

Whatever he finds must answer his unspoken question, as you have no warning before there's twisting in your gut and you're apparated... somewhere.

 

Somewhere. Anywhere. It doesn't fucking matter. For all you care, you could be surrounded by a horde of Death Eaters, and still your attention would be focused solely on him. That's what happens when what you’ve been fantasising about since the age of fifteen comes to life. A reality in which you're too scared to blink, too scared to do anything but comply with whatever he's wanting from you, for if you don't, you're convinced it will dissolve in a waft of smoke.

 

It slips through your mind as his hands land on your body again and his mouth seeks yours, that you're awfully willing to condemn yourself forever in exchange for one night of him being _yours._ You know that's what will happen; an altercation that will leave you changed, a paradigm shift of sorts. How are you expected to carry on with the day to day of life, knowing what it finally feels like, to be with him? Every previously held assumption and belief extirpated in an instant, because never, in all your fantasies, did he ever want you in return.

 

Should you be concerned? Probably. Yet you've never had much restraint when it comes to him.

 

It’s your name sighed on a whimper that does it. Not your last but your first, murmured into the silence _,_ and any hesitancy, any reservations that you may have been entertaining, are gone. Your hands are desperate as they tug at the heavy dress robes he’s wearing, the offending garment thrown aside without a thought as it comes away, leaving him clad only in black slacks and a silk dress shirt.

 

 _Merlin,_ fuck, you feel like a clichéd virgin when the sheer sight makes you question how you had managed to survive this long without seeing him, dressed in _that._

 

Of course, no one could deny your eagerness to get him out of it.

 

You swear you can feel a smirk pressed into the crook of your neck as your hands fumble the small buttons down his shirt, uncharacteristically clumsy in the face of this adversary. You grunt, pull and rip, sending them scattering out of sight, yet his shirt’s no longer a barrier and you're free to run your hands almost reverently over bronzed, scarred skin.

 

He's looking at you with an expression you've never seen on his face before, and can’t understand now. Don't have time to, because you're too busy exploring every inch of his uncovered torso. Your fingers slide over muscled arms, grasp shoulders, delicately caress long healed scars, the heat under your hands not a warmth you’ll be forgetting any time soon. He seems to burn, this man stood before you. A smoulder that winds its way through your body and clenches around your heart, melting away the cold that settled during the war.

 

You've been with men since that, of course. The nameless bodies used to sate an itch; relieve the tension. None have ever come close to this: this intensity and need which leaves the room heavy with a palpable urgency.

 

So lost to the intricacies of his skin, you jump when his hands come to land on your chest, pulling determinately at the clothing which has now become an offensive barrier between you. A sharp tug and your robes are falling. Another, and your shirt is gone. You notice the moment he sees them. The moment two plus two equals four, the loss of the undefined expression which is replaced by contrition. You growl, force his gaze upwards, hands tangled tightly in his hair so as to force his mouth on yours. A distraction, from the pallid cicatrice of sectumsempra. The lasting testament to the broken boy you had been.

 

He, out of everyone, should know not to judge a body by its scars.

 

The black moon sends anamorphic light dancing across your naked flesh, the eerie glow washing out already ashy skin, distorting the jutting planes of your body. In contrast, he's shrouded in caliginosity, eyes dark and unreadable as they map up your arms, over your chest, down the line of pale hair that runs from navel to groin. They linger there, your cock jerking as his eyes seem to burn through your slacks. Hunger undeniable, as he steps forward out of the shadow revealing pants taut and straining.

 

Your groan is audible when he unexpectedly drops to his knees and presses his face audaciously into your crutch, inhaling in a way that makes you shudder with awkwardness and indisputable lechery. You throw your head back with a moan as his fingers come to land on the waistband of your pants, pulling them down with no heed to the expensive material. They pool comically around your ankles, leaving you clad only in a pair of jocks which strain around your cock’s passionate bid for escape. His breath is hot against your length; a glorious, prodigious, _abominable_ tease that has your toes curling and body trembling.

 

You fist your hands in his hair, letting the deceptively soft strands run through your fingers, marvelling at the contrast of black against white. You resist the urge to pull, tug, force, not knowing how he would react. Anyway, it’s an equal you want, not a submissive.

 

Not a dominant either, but you can't deny the anticipation as he gives you a sharp push which sends you tumbling backwards onto a bed you hadn't realised was there; his body quickly following to loom over you, hands pressed to your shoulders. No, you don't want a dominant, but you’re not going to fight against the thrill of his overwhelming power.

 

For a fleeting moment, you let yourself imagine what it would be like if you let yourself submit. Just once. Just for the night. To bite down, and feel the smooth rubber of a ball gag lodged between teeth. The burn of raw wrists which have fought against course rope, the ache in your shoulders from having them bound above your head for too long. Feel the trickle of blood as it runs over clammy skin. The pull of the cuts it originated from, put there in pain and lust; begged for with a whimper which couldn't be denied.  Know what it felt like, to stand bare before a mirror the morning after, fingers skimming over the weals made by another's hand, feel the hitch in your breathing and know that tonight, you would plead for more.

 

To be beaten and bruised. Degraded, destroyed, rejuvenated. Flung into euphoria over and over, a high that lulled the harsh bite of the cane into a soothing caress. A trance that offered escapement; the fogged mind of abandonment. The care that came after the blows had rained down, heady needs fulfilled.

 

But not tonight. This, right now, you and him. Raw, unrefined, passionate and desperate. That's what you need.

 

So when with a low growl he tugs your jocks down and engulfs your aching cock in one go, you lose it. Hips buck, hands fist in the sheets. A hiss which distorts into a cry when you feel his tongue tracing the underside vein before delving into your slit echoes through the room, leaving no doubt to the sincerity of your pleasure **.** Muscles tensed; body strung out and taut, all you can do is squeeze your eyes closed and _hold on_ , time passing in a disjointed haze measured by every panted breath and burning lick on your hyper-sensitised skin, languidly edging lower.

 

His muffled groans when he finds what he was looking for; as if that tiny, tight hole of debauchery and musk was ambrosia, straight from the Gods.

 

You tilt your hips up, urging him deeper, faster, his face buried between two pale, rounded globes, your insistent hands in his hair insurance that he doesn’t stop. Somewhere along the way, in between garbled pleas and breathy grunts, you realise that it’s him; the Wizarding World’s fucking _Golden Boy_ who has his tongue shoved up your godforsaken _arse hole,_ acting like this is what he’s always wanted - acting like he never wants to stop - and you cum. A strangled cry escapes as the dam breaks, your cock pulsing and toes curling, milky, stringy release landing to pool on your stomach.

 

It feels like victory, and you can’t contain a grin.

 

You know you should move, get up, return the favour. You want it, _really_ want it. To see him come undone, and know it was your hands alone that pushed him over the edge. Know, and revel in the evidence, that you have the same effect on him that he does towards you. Yet your body doesn't want to cooperate, and when he places an achingly tender kiss on your ankle – such a contrast to the desperation that had flowed not minutes ago - you let yourself give in.

 

Just for a moment. Then you'll move.

 

What follows could only be described as a lesson in endurance as he proceeds to kiss every inch of your body, lips ghosting over tacky flesh, tracing the planes of your hips and back with his tongue - an amazing, abhorrent tease. You writhe; clenched hands and goose bumped skin, and it’s wrong, so wrong, that he can do this to you. Make your body react with just a brush of lips, make your head tilt back and make you scream, make your toes curl. Make your body a prisoner to his persuasive assailment. Make you want to beg.

 

Maybe you will. Maybe you can. Maybe this is all you’ll ever get - his mouth on you, spreading heat through your veins and fire through your limbs.

 

It would have been enough, before. Still probably would be, if this was all he was willing to give. But the irrevocable craving sears carnal and inescapable and oh, _gods,_ you want to fuck him. Be fucked by him. Preferably both, in as many imaginative, indecent, _vulgar_ ways as possible. Hell, you'd take missionary on the floor if it meant the superb cock that was currently jutting from between two muscular thighs looking all delectable and edible and _huge_ was being pounded into your tight hole.

 

You know what will happen if these events unfold, the culmination of Gryffindor and Slytherin surely a permanent blemish against mankind. The two of you are undoubtedly a fatal pair – both with a penchant for playing fast and loose with the concept of right and wrong. A certain fall, if anyone was to find out. The final nail in your coffin.

 

Somehow, the prospect of falling wasn’t so damning, as long as he fell with you.

 

Fuck it. Let the destruction fuel you. You've come too far now to turn away, and despite the fact that you think you could lie here forever with his lips on your skin, you’re all too scared of losing this one glorious opportunity. Your hands come to rest at his waist and abruptly you push him away, smirking as he lands with an exclamation in a heap on the ground. He can take it, has taken worse. You slither off the bed and crawl towards him, basking in the way his eyes lower and head slumps back, the slight opening of his still pant covered legs. With a predatory leer, you grab them and pull them off, an obscene whine audible as you note the lack of underwear.

 

He answers with a coy grin. A batting of lashes, come-hither eyes, and suddenly you wonder how many others he's been with, for he’s clearly no unskilled innocent. How many others he’s worshipped with his tongue; the people he’s fucked and taken and screwed and _loved._  For a second you resent him, absolutely and unquestionably _hate_ him, because he shouldn’t have been anyone’s but _yours,_ and whilst you may not be the first, you sure as shit want to be the last.  

 

A teenage delusion, assuredly. But you’re seized with irrational bitterness until an impatient huff wrenches you from your jealousy and you conclude that _now_ is better than _never_.

 

With that thought a shudder rakes through your body and you scramble to your feet, grabbing his hand and pulling him up with you, urging him back until his feet collide with a wall. There’s desperation as your hands grip his biceps, and, yes, a hint of ownership - of taking what’s _yours -_ as you spin him around, pushing him face-first to a floor length mirror you couldn’t swear was there a moment ago. Green eyes flash in the reflection and you meet his gaze with hungry defiance, biting down on the all-consuming urge to blurt out ‘s _cared, Potter?’_

 

You succeed, but it’s a close thing.

 

He’s panting now, arse stuck out and hands splayed against the mirror, breath fogging the glass as he all but begs for your cock. Your fingers hurriedly smear pre-come down your dick, hips jerking as the touch nearly tears you apart, before shamelessly spit-covered fingers are pressing urgently into hot, clenching heat. One, quickly followed by a second, third. It’s intoxicating, perfect, a _necessity,_  except - _fucking hell_ \- he’s already ready; already pleading for you to do it, and you’re definitely not going to question whether it's magic or - _christ –_ he’s just that loose for you. You already feel invincible, yet when you finally enter him – hard, unforgivingly, until you bottom out, hips pressed to arse – it’s positively _deistic._

 

Hot. Burning hot, _so much heat,_  interwoven with the sweet clamp of his arse around you as you start to fuck him in earnest, pulling back so that it’s just your tip left before slamming in, nails biting into the soft skin of his thighs. You drink in the sounds he’s making, the grunts and the whimpers and the garbled nonsense, the quiver of his muscles even as he pushes back to meet every thrust.

 

 _Look at me._ You need to see his face; the two of you, together.

 

 _Look at me._ Pale against tan; a beautiful contrast, the knowledge of who you were. Who you are.

 

 _Look at me._ Grab his jaw and tug until, _yes_ , Green to Grey your eyes meet.

 

You hold him like that, his gaze locked to yours, unrelenting, primal, base, even as you continue to fuck him in a way you’re sure will leave bruises on him and yourself unable to walk. Hold him like that, even as you struggle to hold _yourself_ back, try ignore the ache and the burn and the clench of your imminent release. Hold him, even as you sacrifice your balance to snake a hand around his thigh and clasp his aching cock, a cry ripped from his mouth at the touch.

 

You hold him like that, and you wank him – clumsily, fervently, certainly not your best  – but that’s all it takes before he’s coming, head thrown back and arse constricting around your dick, smearing the mirror with streaks of cum. He’s beautiful like this, _of course he is,_  all sweat and cum and tensed muscles, the black hair and the green eyes which have now fallen shut, the bob of his cock that is only starting to soften; the knowledge that, evidently, fantasies can come true. It’s everything at once, the perfect moment that has you wishing to stay suspended in this breath of time, yet your body is a traitor to your own desires, and you can’t do anything but cry out as your orgasm crashes over you.

 

It’s amazing; the best you’ve ever had. The best you’ve ever felt. But you knew it would be from the start. His and your conclusion was never going to be ordinary.

 

You look back to the mirror. He’s been watching you, anything but discreet. A grin settles across his mouth. Your heart skips a beat.

 

Who knew what could happen in the dark night of a black moon.


End file.
